The Thing That Matters
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: So much is left unsaid between the adoption interview and Shelagh and Patrick's reconciliation. This is my take on that that awful time, from Shelagh's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

It's been a while since I've posted on this site, sorry about that. You can find all my fics on my Wordpress blog:

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Chapter One

Shelagh pulled the last of the laundered shirts from the wash tub, her morning following its usual pattern. Routine centered her. As a nun, the repeated daily ritual of prayer and service had for a very long time provided tranquility and peace of mind. Then, after she emerged from her wilderness of the soul, ready to enter a new life, she discovered that a new routine could be just as much a part of that serenity.

This morning, she found no such harmony in her daily chores. Despite all her efforts, Shelagh could not force the memory of last night's interview to the back of her brain. Still stunned by its disastrous outcome, she found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened. Only impressions of moments came to her mind, disconnected images and words that jeopardized the life she thought she was living.

Last night, her dreams came tumbling down around her ears. The adoption interview quickly shifted from a pleasant formality to a devastating revelation of secrets. Shelagh's heart clenched as the terrible words came back to her: Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital.

She snapped a shirt in the air, uncaring of the droplets that sprayed her clean walls. Had Patrick _ever_ intended to tell her of his time there? What other secrets was he keeping from her?

Anger rose in Shelagh's heart. After she had confronted him, Patrick had fled the flat, not to return until late in the evening, long after his wife and son had retired. This morning, few words were exchanged, no real attempts at communication were made.

"He think's I'm a child," Shelagh told herself angrily as she hung her husband's shirts to dry. "Not a partner, not an equal." She roughly shaped the collar. "He doesn't trust me!" Bitter tears stung her eyes, refusing to be shed.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, building up an energy that needed to be released. The washing was done quickly, too quickly, and Shelagh searched for something to occupy her hands, and by extension, her thoughts. The preparations for the interview left little to be done, and she glared at the pristine flat.

She had to get out. She glanced down at her comfortable dress and apron and made a decision. She would get out of the house, even if just to do the shopping. If Patrick could avoid their home, then so could she.

In their bedroom, her eyes avoided his side of the bed. She hadn't needed to do much to make the bed this morning. Anger had kept her still in her sleepless state, and Patrick must have found his rest on the sofa.

Her grey suit would do. She felt very in control in the grey suit. Dressed, her hair in its controlled updo, she automatically reached for her jewelry box for a brooch. Her fingers stopped, and she snapped it closed. There would be no need for jewelry today.

Polished heels clicked sharply against the pavement as Shelagh briskly walked to the shops. Timothy needed some more pencils, and the boy seemed to lose at least a pair of socks a week. He was so very helpful, perhaps she would surprise him with a chocolate bar when he returned from school.

Part of her mind reviewed Patrick's requests in the past few days. No, there was nothing pressing he needed, and she tried to dismiss him from her mind. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she decided. She was not an errand-girl, there to fetch and care for him. Let him get his own things.

The bell tinkled as she stepped into the corner shop. The early morning rush was over, and the proprietor, always an admirer of the lovely Mrs. Turner, had a moment to spend.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Turner! Always a pleasure to see you. How may I be of assistance today?" His eyes were clever and used the moment she turned to the news racks to admire her figure.

"I'll need some pencils and a bar of that chocolate. The big one, if you please." Her purse clicked open.

"As you wish, Mrs. Turner. I saw that Timothy of yours the other day. He'll be startin' to sprout any day now." The newsagent leaned over the counter. "I must say, Mrs. Turner, that boy's lucky to have you. All that nasty stuff in the past, he's as right as rain now. Well done."

Shelagh blushed. "Why...thank you, Mr. Morris. We're very proud of Timothy, he's worked so terribly hard."

"And he couldn't have done it without you. Dr. Turner, neither. Never saw a man so changed for the better in so little time."

At the sound of Patrick's name, Shelagh felt herself stiffen again and the sense of dread in her gut re-awakened.

"Would you be wantin' a packet of cigarettes for Dr. Turner, then ma'am?" Mr. Morris snapped open a paper sack.

"No." Shelagh heard the sharpness to her voice. This wouldn't do, she thought. She mustn't behave as if she weren't in control of her feelings. "No, thank you, Mr. Morris. No cigarettes today."

The sky was too bright when she stepped from the dim shop, forcing Shelagh to squint to see. She turned away from home and walked towards the river. The news agent's words rang in her ears. No. She didn't want to think of how Patrick needed her.

Indeed.

 _Of course_ he needed her. She ran his home, she supported him, she took care of him so that he could focus on his own concerns.

She was the perfect footrest. And then, at the end of the day, if he cared to show her some attention, she was content to give him what he wanted.

It was her job to make sure Patrick was happy and she was very good at her job.

She pressed her lips together in frustration. She didn't ask for much. She certainly didn't ask for the trinkets and gewgaws he bought for her. A sunflower brooch, how ridiculous! She was from Scotland, not Spain, for heaven's sake. A thistle would've been a better choice. At the time, she'd been touched by his words of explanation: "You're like the sun to me, my love."

He was just giving her a treat, a shiny object to keep her happy. How had she been so wrong?

The pavement took her to the quay's edge and she leant against the rails. The closeness she thought they shared now seemed so very shallow. Clearly, Patrick did not have faith in her. He cared for her, he even loved her, but he was not prepared to share himself with her. To have left such a thing untold, to have kept such a part of him from her, he must not have cared. Not for her as a partner, not for the baby they might have raised.

Shelagh felt the ball of dread burst into a hot anger. There it was. Patrick had kept secrets, and his lack of trust had robbed her of her last chance to have a child. For the first time since that dreadful moment, Shelagh felt tears on her cheeks.

Her hands clenched tightly around the railing, searching for purchase. She had left everything behind, abandoned her whole life for this man. Had she been blind the whole time? Why on earth would he, at fifty, with a son nearly grown, want to start again? He must have thought he had dodged a bullet when her diagnosis came through.

She could picture it. Mr. Horringer's news must have come as a relief, which Patrick was quick to hide during her convalescence. But soon, much sooner than she had expected, he had moved on. _"Put it away, Shelagh,"_ he said of the nightdress _. "Put it away, out of sight."_

Her heart ached to think how he must have recoiled from the subject of adoption. How he must have lied again when he encouraged her to pursue the idea.

"How could he not have told me?" Hours later, she was still stunned. Could he think she would possibly let this rest? Did he know her so little?

Shelagh stopped and turned away from the river. She wiped the angry tears from her face, glad she had used only a minimum of mascara that morning. It wouldn't do to be seen with a smudged face. She took a deep breath and headed home.


	2. Chapter 2

When the hot blaze of anger goes, it becomes a cold ache.

Shelagh's probably never had a fight before, don't you think? Not a real drag-out, emotional battlefield kind of fight, anyway. Love is a risk. Marriage is hard.

It's a good thing she's brave.

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Chapter Two

Shelagh returned from her outing worn and exhausted. For the first time since her days at the sanatorium, she collapsed on the bed in the middle of the day and slept. It was only the sound of Timothy at the door of the flat that finally woke her.

Timothy stood at the sitting room table as she entered the kitchen, her fingers tucking in a stray lock of hair.

"Did you take a _nap_?" he asked, confused.

She kept her face from him as she went to the sink. "Yes. It's been a demanding week. I thought a quick doze might prepare me for when you need help with your maths." Her joke was meant to distract him. Timothy was quite proud of his quick maths skills. She lifted the kettle, eager to avoid his curious eyes. "I'll start the tea."

"But you _never_ nap. You like to brag that even when you were a midwife, you could stay all night at a delivery and last the whole day through." He began to pile his school books on the table.

"Books after tea, Timothy. And I hope I never brag." She came around the side door. "Here," she handed him the brown paper sack.

Peering into it, Timothy wondered, "Chocolate? What's this for?"

"No reason. I thought perhaps you might like a treat, to say thank you for all you've done for us these last weeks." As soon as she said the words, Shelagh felt a stirring in the back of her mind. Clamping it down, she went back to put the kettle on. "Your father's on call at the maternity hospital, so it'll be just us two tonight. I thought maybe we'd go and try that new restaurant over near the tube station."

"The Indian place? I'm not sure. I've never tried it. None of my friends have tried it."

"Neither have I, but it's always a good idea to keep your mind open to new things. If you really don't like it we'll stop and get you some fish and chips after."

"We wouldn't try it if Dad were at home," Timothy said with a smirk.

Shelagh was glad her back was to the boy. "Well, you're father is perfectly able to get himself his own dinner tonight." The sharpness had returned to her voice, and she could feel the acrimony return. Timothy was always quick to pick up on her feelings. It wouldn't do for him to suspect there was something wrong. Shelagh brightened. "If we really like it, then we can try and convince him to join us next time."

"Not much chance of that. In case you haven't noticed, Dad's a bit of a stodgy old man. He doesn't like change much."

Before Shelagh could respond, Tim interrupted. "I know, don't say it. You're sure you don't know what I'm talking about

"One last one, I promise. What's the longest word in the alphabet?"

Shelagh pretended an exasperation she didn't feel. For a few hours, she had been able to lock away any unsettling thoughts. "Oh, alright. I don't know. What _is_ the longest word in the alphabet?"

"Smiles."

Shelagh stared blankly at the boy. " I don't get it, Timothy. How-"

"Because there's a mile between each 'S!"

Shelagh groaned. "For that one, you'll have to do the washing up tonight."

Timothy grinned widely. "I wish it were as easy every night!" The greasy newspaper wrappings crackled loudly as he crumbled them into a ball then threw them onto the bin. "Even the tea things?" he asked, keeping up the pretense of frustration.

"Oh, your poor thing. Go on with you. I'll do the washing up. Be sure to put your jumper out for me to wash. I'm not sure if curry stains, so I'd better get to that tonight. I'll come to say good night in a bit."

Without Timothy's cheery voice, the kitchen became quiet very quickly. Ordinary sounds were magnified. The screech of the ironing board's legs, the thud of the heavy cord as it fell to the floor seemed to echo in the empty sitting room. Shelagh could feel her discomfort start to grow again. But the hours spent with her son had changed things.

The alarming resentment she carried throughout the day had dissipated. leaving a dull tension in her middle. She still couldn't understand why Patrick had kept such a thing from her. He had kept a big part of himself from her, carried a secret that must have been separating them all this time.

She wasn't as naive as he thought. She'd worked closely enough alongside the families of Poplar this last ten years to know that married couples fought. She'd always been surprised by the animosity that could spring up between two people that loved each other, then ease away back into marital harmony.

Whatever was happening between her and Patrick, it barely resembled those loud arguments. A flash of an unexpected temper had burst from her, met only by his withdrawal, both physical and emotional. Could they even call this a fight?

Timothy's door stood ajar, his sign that he was ready for bed. The boy was beginning to become a young man, and she was careful of his privacy. A gentle rap on the door jamb was answered by his call to enter.

"I don't think it's such a stain, you're a whiz at laundry." Timothy gestured to the soiled jumper. He climbed into his bed, adjusting the pillow into the funny lump he preferred. "Colin says his mother can never get the collars right, says his parents argue about it all the time."

She drew a finger down his cheek, then tweaked his ear. "No telling tales, Timothy dear. I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Monk wouldn't want to hear their business gossiped about in the play yard. Married people are bound to argue over something sometime. You and Colin have arguments, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. But they never last long."

"There, you see? Things blow over." She smoothed the blanket over him. "Now get some sleep. And dream of maharaji and the Taj Mahal."

The door clicked quietly behind her, and she wondered about their chat. Childhood spats with friends seemed to be quite ordinary, but she couldn't remember having many. Even at Nonnatus she had avoided getting involved in petty arguments. For years she had put it down to strong diplomatic skills. They had unquestionably come in handy living with Sister Monica Joan.

The iron hot, Shelagh reached into the laundry basket for the first of the ironing and stretched out one of Patrick's shirts on the board. She dampened the fabric and began to press it smooth. A cloud of starchy steam puffed up, filling her nose with its scent. Tears welled up as she was flooded with memories of Patrick's arms about her, her face pressed to this same shirt.

Roughly, she rubbed the tears away. She was tired of these unsettling feelings. Patrick had lied to her, and their chance for a new baby seemed but a pipe dream. She wouldn't back down in a wave of sentiment. She was a full partner in this marriage, for better or worse, and would not shrink away to be considered anything else. Perhaps there was something else to consider. For so much of her life she had lived vicariously through the community she served, always on the periphery, never in the middle of things. She was certainly in the thick of things now.

Diplomacy would not be the solution.


	3. Chapter 3

Shelagh turns to an old friend for some advice.

Special thanks to Rockbird86and Soph25388 for their help translating my American English into Cockney Fred.

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Chapter Three

The large open space of the Poplar Community Centre was never more necessary than at the bi-weekly Mother and Baby clinic. Every chair was filled, every toy in hand. After several long, crowded hours, the roar died down, until it only remained for the exhausted staff to prepare for the next one.

Shelagh sat primly at her desk, organizing the last of the files. Despite the controlled chaos and mayhem of the crowded clinic, she seemed as serene as ever. If perhaps she was a bit quieter than usual, no one seemed to notice. She looked up as Fred Buckle, solid and sure, approached the intake desk, tool box in hand.

"Greetings, Fred, we're so very glad you could come by and help today." Shelagh stood and placed a long, thin box on the desk. The height charts Patrick had ordered months ago had finally arrived.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Turner. Little bit of a job'll take me no time at all." Huffing, he glanced about the hall. "Have a special spot in mind?" he asked.

Shelagh turned and gestured to the corner behind her. "Yes, actually, we'll need to put them up near the weighing station, but I'm afraid Nurse Franklin is still working there for the moment. Why don't you go fix yourself a cup of tea, and we can get to work in a few moments?"

"Right you are, Mrs. T. Back in two shakes." He dropped the toolbox next the desk and sauntered happily to the kitchen.

Shelagh turned back to her files and closed up the typewriter. In no time, the Community Center was a blank slate, ready for Youth Club, Historical Society or even a dance.

Patrick approached Shelagh, his coat draped over his arm, medical bag in his grip. "I'm afraid there's a backlog of paperwork at the maternity hospital. I'll need to go back there straight away if I'm ever going to get on top of it. I can drop you at home now if you're ready to leave, Shelagh." His eyes darted nervously towards the nurses on their way out past the desk.

Shelagh's face stiffened almost imperceptibly as she turned away from her husband. "Good afternoon, ladies, that was very well managed today. Fifty-seven patients in four hours. It might be a new record," she called after the younger women. Her voice lowered, and without looking back at Patrick, she continued, "I won't be ready to go for another while, I'm afraid. I've asked Fred to install the new growth charts you ordered. You go on ahead. I'll get myself home."

On cue, Fred wandered back out of the kitchen, a green teacup in his hand and biscuit crumbs clinging to his sweater.

Extending the white coat to his wife, Patrick responded, "If you're sure…"

"Yes, I'm quite sure. I'll finish up with Fred and walk home. I can take care of myself, certainly. Will you be home for dinner?" The coat was neatly folded and placed in the bag set for the laundry.

Patrick looked away, and shrugged into his dark jacket. "I'll be late. Just leave a plate warming for me. I'll be fine on my own tonight." With a quick glance at the handyman, Patrick made a quick farewell and was gone.

Shelagh seemed to deflate as she watched her husband leave the centre. Fred clapped his hands together, then rubbed them together. "Well then, Mrs. Turner, just like the good old days, innit? I await your command!"

Shelagh smiled weakly and led him to the back corner of the hall. "Right here, if you please, Fred. I'll help you measure and you can put the growth chart in its proper place. We'll have to be very precise. The National Health has very strict guidelines on units of measurement."

Years of working together on odd repairs at Nonnatus had created an understanding between the two. Exchanging few words, Shelagh marked the measurements whilst Fred settled the chart in place. With his other hand he took the nail from his teeth and began to tap it into place.

"You and the doctor having a bit of a barney?" he asked, his eyes on the chart.

Shelagh's eyes flew to him, her face pale with surprise. She sought excuses, but could think of none. Finally, she asked quietly, "Were we that obvious?"

Fred turned back, his face full of compassion. "The others, they didn't see it," he reassured her. "I've been married, remember. I know the signs. Polite enough to meet the Queen, not really looking at each other, oh, all the tell-tale hints." He reached into his pocket for another nail. "I loved my wife, none better, but we could throw down something fierce. Stayed angry for days sometimes, not speak more than three words altogether. Then somefink'd happen and we'd remember what we were together for."

Shelagh pressed her lips together in confusion. Part of her wanted to end this conversation quickly. She knew dear Fred meant well, but it really wasn't anyone's business. She was sure that Patrick would not want her discussing their private affairs with someone else.

The handyman reached into his toolbox for a small spirit guide. Shelagh knew he would put no pressure on her to continue. Patrick might not want her to talk with Fred, but she needed to speak with someone. This rift with her husband had her thoughts in a tangle. In a quiet voice, Shelagh confided, "We've never fought before; we don't even bicker." The crease between her eyebrows deepened.

"'Course you don't. You're newlyweds. On yer best behavior, ain't ya?" He turned around, giving his attention to the wall chart. "You and the doc, yer still gettin' to know each other. A year ago, where were you? Still Sister Bernadette, in that sanatorium, and now look at ya. A wife and mother, livin' a whole new life. That's a long way to come in a twelvemonth."

"I'm starting to think I don't know him at all, Fred. I thought…" She breathed heavily, a catch in her voice. "He knows all there is to me, and there's still so much he's never told me."

Fred scratched the back of his head, a look of concentration on his face. "Is there? I reckon there are plenty of things you haven't said, neither. It's alright. Things take time. Yer still gettin' to know each other."

The anger she had quelled throughout the day with busy activity began to grow again. "But he should have told me. That's what hurts so, Fred. He didn't care enough or-or trust me enough to share something with me, something that really matters, something that could change everything we ever wanted. And now he wants me to pretend it never happened."

Finished with the wall chart, the large man turned his attention to his toolbox. After a few moments, he began, "I want you to consider this. It took a rare courage to leave your old life behind, start fresh with Dr. Turner. You think he doesn't trust you? Fiddle. That man knows your worth more'n anyone.

"There's a reason he didn't tell you somefink. I'm not sayin' he was right, but _I know_ , and _you_ _know_ that your husband is the best of men. And men want to be the hero, even if it's just for their lady. _Especially_ for their lady."

"I didn't marry Patrick because I needed him to be my hero, Fred." Frustrated by the tears that began to fall, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag.

He smiled wisely. "No, it's been my experience few ladies do. That doesn't stop us from wantin' to be one, though, does it? The important thing is to let the bad feelings go. Me and the missus never had a fight where we both weren't to blame."

Shelagh glanced away, ashamed. She had pushed all responsibility for this mess in Patrick's corner. Patrick had not spoken, true. But had she listened?

"You just bide yer time, madam. You'll soon remember what you're together for." The toolbox snapped closed loudly. "And then you'll be stronger for it. Mark my words."

On the steps outside the entrance, Shelagh thanked her old friend for his help.

Fred shook off the gratitude. "My pleasure. Always like to help things measure up." He started down the steps, then turned back.

"One more thing, Mrs Turner. If you don't ever fight, you don't get to make up. And I have to tell ya, the makin' up's the best part." With a tip of his hat, Fred the Handyman went on his way.


	4. Chapter 4

Shelagh's talk with dear old Fred may have helped her understand more about the complexities of her marriage, but righting the ship will take a bit of time. She's starting to understand her own emotions, but there are two in a marriage.

* * *

Chapter Four

Any other time, the choir's efforts to tackle such a difficult arrangement would have thrilled Shelagh. In such a short time the women had tackled the difficult task of reaching the high notes of Ave Verum Corpus whilst following her directions for sotto voce. The Bass section was coming along nicely, but the Tenors were still one short, and she could hear a weakness in that void.

The last notes bounced around the community center and Shelagh dropped her hands.

"Very well done, thank you. We're well on our way to being ready for the competition. I think that will be all tonight, ladies and gentlemen. If you could all be here next week, seven o'clock, we'll work on our timing." She turned to Timothy. "Thank you, Timothy, dear. That was quite excellent this evening."

The boy smiled back, but she could see the worry in his eyes. She glanced away. It wouldn't do for Timothy to read too much into the situation. Patrick had clearly forgotten about their regular choir practice when he interrupted with Reverend Hereward Men's Group earlier, despite having been one of the earliest members to join.

But that had been weeks ago, when Shelagh needed him to help rebuild the choir. Patrick's chair was left empty soon afterward, a victim to his busy schedule. The choir was no longer a priority for him, and she understood.

With a deep breath, Shelagh faced the choir. "As usual, we'll need to stack the chairs, neatly, if you please, and I'm afraid last time someone left several tea cups in the kitchen sink. I don't think Timothy will thank you if he has to stay behind to wash up."

A laugh came up from the group and Shelagh began to gather her score. Mrs. Sills, a rather enthusiastic alto and notorious gossip, joined her at the stage.

"Bit of a surprise to see Doctor Turner show up tonight, Mrs. Turner. I'd've thought him, of all people, would know the choir practices here once a week, what with his wife and son here." Her sly voice did not trick Shelagh.

"Doctor Turner is a very busy man, Mrs. Sills, with many demands on his time. You can understand, of course, that a thing like this might slip his mind." She kept her eyes on the sheet music she was sorting. Mrs. Sills was not going to get a rise out of her.

"Funny, I reckon you looked surprised when he waltzed in. Sounded a bit put out, too, if I may say."

Shelagh placed the sheaf of papers on the stage and took a deep breath. Years of handling the mercurial nature of Sister Monica Joan had taught her to keep cool and collected. "Is there anything else, Mrs. Sills? I wouldn't want to keep you."

The busybody frowned, unsatisfied. Over her shoulder, she took a parting shot. "It's so generous of Dr. Turner to give so much of his time to the community. It's just too bad he doesn't have time for the choir anymore."

On the walk home, Shelagh's attempts at conversation were answered by curt responses, and soon she stopped speaking entirely. Timothy would need help understanding the change in their home, but she would have to wait and follow his lead. She knew he was confused-hurt, even, and she struggled to find a way of comforting him.

The atmosphere at home had not improved, despite her efforts at reconciliation. Patrick was just as distant as ever since the terrible interview, unwilling to bridge the growing chasm between them. Unavoidably, her own anger transmuted into a cold doubt.

Even in their marriage bed he would not lower his walls. For the first time since her surgery, there was no physical intimacy between them at all. She remembered how during the long painful nights after her diagnosis, Patrick had wrapped her in his arms, keeping her close in their own little world. Her heart ached to think of the cold inches that separated them these last nights.

After long moments of unsettled silence, Timothy spoke. "He should have remembered." His voice was hard and uncompromising.

Shelagh sighed. He was such an intuitive boy, she had known he would recognize tonight's lapse. Timothy was very protective of her, a thought that made her smile bittersweet. The loss of his mother was always under the surface, and informed so many of his actions. She understood that, and knew it was likely the first link in the chain that bonded them together, but she mustn't give in to it.

She wouldn't, she _couldn't_ replace Margaret. The most she could do was to find her own place as his new mother, but that should not be done at the expense of his relationship with his father. Her own sense of emptiness should not be filled by her step-son. It would be selfish to allow it, and Timothy would suffer for the breach that had formed between his parents.

"Timothy, your father is a very busy man, you know that." Even to her own ears, the excuse felt feeble.

Tim's eyes stayed straight ahead. "He's never too busy for his _patients_. I thought that...I thought when you got married he'd stay home more, that we'd be a family. Lately, he's never home, and when he is, he's practically invisible." His young body was stiff in its hurt confusion.

Placing her arm on his sleeve, Shelagh paused in their walk. "Timothy, you know your father loves you."

"I know he _says_ he does," Timothy countered angrily, "but what good is that if he's so cold and distant all the time? You spent all that time making a pudding he likes, and he barely tasted it. He doesn't talk to us, he doesn't want to be around us at all anymore."

Days of pretending and smoothing over difficult moments had begun to fatigue her. It was like oil of clove on a sore tooth. It might dull the pain for a bit, but the only way to conquer the pain was to get at its source. Hadn't she learnt that already?

Taking a deep breath, Shelagh reached out. "Timothy, remember during the summer holidays, when you were so irritated with me?"

His eyes glanced away guiltily. "It wasn't you. I was frustrated I had those stupid calipers."

Shelagh smiled. "No, you were frustrated with _me_. It's alright, dear, I understand. I was smothering you a bit, I'm afraid."

"Well, maybe you were, a little," Timothy's slightly crooked smile pierced her heart. "But I was a bit of a beast to you. You were only trying to help."

It would be easy to agree with him. She had been trying to help, after all, and Timothy _had_ been unpleasant. She stopped in her tracks. No, Shelagh thought. It was time to stop playing the part of the helpless victim.

"Yes, I was. But I was trying too hard. I was holding you too tightly. It was perfectly appropriate for you to push back at me. You may still be a child, but you have the right to be considered as a full partner in your own life.

"Your father and I...we've hit a rough patch, just like you and I did last summer. And just like that time, it isn't all one person's fault. Your Dad and I need to learn..." She paused. Timothy was a child. The work of a marriage was beyond his understanding. It would be better to reassure him, to help him understand that he was loved, and would be cared for.

Linking her arm in his, she turned home. "If I've learned anything this last year, it's that you must earn the life you want. You can't expect to sit back and let it come to you."

Patrick's own words of comfort last summer came back to her. The road ahead wasn't clear, but they were on it together. Her resolve strengthened. She and Patrick wouldn't find their way back to each other with puddings or favors. They would have to work together.

"We'll get through this, dearest. We'll find a way."


	5. Chapter 5

The post-adoption trauma? That was a pretty big fight. We all know that Patrick and Shelagh made up (spoiler!), and have a lovely scene in S3E8 to help us see it. But such an estrangement would take a bit longer than that to repair. Do you suppose Fred's advice in chapter three was right?

I think he was about three kettles right (four if you have a good imagination).

* * *

Chapter Five

Shelagh's mending basket sat beside her, overfull with the evidence of a much-hated chore. Ripped seams and torn hems were standard wardrobe calamities in the Turner household, and she quickly grew tired of the sight. And while she was never one to shirk her duties, the sewing was often put off for more pleasant diversions.

Tonight, however, Shelagh found herself with little else to occupy her time. Timothy abed, and Patrick on call again, the quiet of the flat unnerved her, and she turned to the despised task. Yet there was little solace in the activity, for it did not distract her mind. Worries rose up and took over her thoughts, making her resolutions difficult to fulfill.

The click of the front door made Shelagh's heart begin to pound. Would she be able to stay her course? She had pushed back at Patrick's coldness this morning, pressing for some sort of connection, but even the hoped-for letter from the adoption agency provoked no emotion from him.

Throughout the day, her brave words to her son the night before seemed so far away. Would her efforts be enough? She could not repair the damage she and Patrick had done to their marriage by herself. If Patrick would not respond to her, she feared they would never get past this. Yet knowing she needed resolution was easier than finding a way to it. She shifted in her seat and nervously pulled the needle through the torn hem she was mending.

Wearily, Patrick came into the sitting room and stood beside the mantle. Beyond a short greeting, he was silent. Shelagh glanced quickly in his direction, then turned her eyes back to her mending, missing how he rubbed his thumb against his finger, a tell-tale sign of his nerves.

"I've been to the Noakes'," he began baldly. "Lady Browne has stomach cancer, I'm sure of it. I palpated at least two tumors, each the size of a lemon."

Shelagh inhaled sharply. "Oh, the poor woman. She must be in terrible pain."

"I'm certain she is. Judging from the signs, the pain must have become intense weeks ago. I'm surprised she's been able to hide it for this long." His hand absently tapped the mantle.

"Lady Brown is of a particularly...strong-willed character. She wouldn't have wanted anyone to know." she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She wasn't sure she was speaking of Chummy's mother any longer. "The tea's fresh. It'll still be hot."

She watched his straight back disappear beyond the kitchen door. Should she say something, she wondered. This was the first time he had initiated conversation in days, and she found herself uncertain.

As hurt as she had been, she knew that he had reason to be upset as well. Her harsh advance on him after the interview had stunned them both, her angry words an attack. Would Patrick want to just put this episode behind them, without real resolution?

Perhaps it would be simpler if she gave in. For ten years she had kept her vow of obedience, and for the better part of that time, she had gladly followed. Duty and devotion could be enough. Perhaps this was how she was best suited to live.

Her needle stumbled through the hem. She would most likely have to unpick it in the morning. Hems were much trickier than they seemed. It was easy to do one stitch too many or few and leave behind an uneven line. The error might be difficult to see, but if not corrected, would affect the entire hem. She preferred reattaching buttons. Once the damaged stitches were cleaned away, strong neat stitches could make a stronger connection than even the original.

She closed her eyes, remembering. Once, a simple button, sewn with confident stitches, had made her see what she had been denying for so long. Obedience to a calling she no longer felt had led to heartache. Finding the courage to find the right path, she had found joy. Duty and devotion had not solved her problems then, they would not do so now.

The tension in the room shifted as Patrick turned back with his tea. He spoke, but his words did little to calm the coil of nerves inside her. The nightdress, source of such hope for her chance at bearing a child, was not something she could discuss casually, and her stomach churned in confusion when he returned to that subject. Did he really not know her?

Suddenly, there was a shift in his manner as if he was consumed by another force, and he came to her, speaking words of apology. Confused, she struggled to look at him, but his voice, husky and ardent, drew her eyes to his. The breath escaped her lungs as she saw the emotions flood his beloved face and she felt the walls separating them crumble.

He kissed her hand, in that way he had, his dark hazel-green eyes glittering with relief and elation. Her heart full, Shelagh slipped her hand from his and caressed his cheek. She was overwhelmed by the joy she felt, and needing to be closer, she stood before him and pulled him to stand in her arms. They lingered for long, still moments, sure in this homecoming.

Patrick moved first, rubbing his cheek against her glossy hair, his lips travelling the smooth curve of her downy cheek to find her lips turned to him. Slowly his lips met hers, placing light kisses on her pliant mouth. He kissed her on her soft upper lip, gentle and tender, drawing out her shaky sigh. His hands came up the length of her neck as his mouth began to caress her full lower lip, tugging it delicately between his own, his tongue barely brushing against its smooth interior. Her sigh became that sound he loved most of all. Groaning, his hands moved to cradle her head as his mouth opened hungrily over hers, delighting when she parted her lips in response. Her arms wrapped tighter around his waist, her body pressed close.

"Speak to me, sweetheart," he whispered, breaking the kiss to taste the delicate skin along her jawline. "Tell me what you need."

Shelagh's knees buckled from the want of him, and she grasped his shoulders, his arms holding her tight against him. For too long there had been nothing more than duty kisses exchanged between them. The sad, lonely time was finally over and Shelagh was overcome by passion for this man.

"l need you, Patrick." Her fingers threaded through his hair, bringing his mouth back to hers and a laugh burst from his chest. In moments, they were in their bed, lying face to face, skin to skin.

Their bodies fit together in a well-remembered embrace. Shelagh's hands grazed across his shoulders and rested above his heart. "I love you so very much, Patrick. Please don't let us ever fight again." Her eyes glistened, and a tear spilled down her cheek to settle in the curve of her ear. Patrick hushed her, making impossible promises. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Never again, I swear." He brushed a finger against the damp tear trail. "We'll talk. I won't be so afraid to speak."

For now, impossible promises were enough. Their lips met in a sweet kiss, gentle and tender, their hearts healing. Slowly, the energy between them changed and Shelagh pressed herself against him, eager and willing to return to their cherished intimacy.

Moments, hours, possibly years later, he moved to separate their sated bodies, but was halted by her cry of protest. "No." Shelagh tightened her legs around his hips, holding him to her. "Don't leave me."

His hands stroked her hair back from her face. "Sweetheart, my arms are completely knackered. I'll crush you." He kissed her lightly, then more slowly as he rolled to his back, pulling her with him.

They lay together, limbs entwined, as their breathing returned to normal. Shelagh tucked her head under his chin, and traced her fingers across the smooth skin of his chest. She smiled shyly. The euphoria of being so close, of sharing herself so completely with him was more than she ever dreamed. God had blessed her with this marriage, and she sent up a grateful prayer.

Patrick's arm tightened about her, and she sighed. "What is it?" She could hear the contentment in his voice.

"I missed you," Shelagh whispered against his skin. "I had no idea how much I need this."

"This?" He would want to hear her say it.

"You." Her voice lowered in her shyness. "I need to feel you above me, inside of me." Shelagh skimmed the tips of her fingers along his side, just missing the ticklish place. "I was so lonely without you, Patrick. But it has to be more than this, we have to tell each other-"

"I know." His lungs let out a deep breath. "I was scared, Shelagh. I thought if I told you, I might lose you."

"Patrick, I would never leave-"

"I know. You'd never leave me." He pressed his lips to her temple. "But I was afraid it would change things, that you'd see me differently if you knew. I couldn't bear it if we lost this, Shelagh-this.. _.wonder._ I suppose I closed off to protect myself." He tilted her chin up to see her face. "I'm sorry. I should have trusted you."

"Yes, you should have," she told him lightly, lifting her body up on her forearms. Looking him squarely she whispered, "Nothing will make me stop loving you, dearest. Nothing."

His fingertips stroked her temple, then slid into her hair. "It was never your fault, Shelagh. I threw up a wall to protect myself, but I think I was blocking myself in, not shielding myself. I was cold and distant, and you don't deserve that. And neither does Timothy."

"Patrick, you were hurting, and I was happy to pretend there was nothing wrong. I wanted a baby so much I forgot that I already have a family. I love you and Timothy so, but I must have done something to make you think you weren't enough. God has given me so much. I promise from now on I won't forget that."

"And I promise to show you that I trust you. I know you think I can be a bit...patriarchal at times, but I do think of you as my partner, my love. I'd grown so used to being the sole decision maker. I need to adjust a bit." He smiled crookedly and kissed the top of her head. "I think I might like letting you take the reins. You always seem to know what to do."

A chuckle rumbled in Shelagh's chest. She kissed his shoulder and replied, "I'd prefer it if we shared the reins, Patrick."

"I'd like that, too." The quiet of the flat cocooned them now. Shelagh breathed in deeply, the scent of home, and their bed, and Patrick filling her senses. His hand caressed the softness of her arm, then entwined itself with her small fingers. "So strong," he whispered.

"Shelagh, it wasn't you. I've never been able to talk of it. Even then, my family only knew I was convalescing, they knew nothing of the real problem. And then, Margaret and I-we never spoke of the war. The memories were too painful for both of us, I suppose. It was easier to let things slip into the shadows."

A sharp pain crossed her face, and Shelagh lowered her cheek to his chest. Just as she could not replace Margaret in Timothy's heart, Shelagh knew she could not expect Patrick to forget her either. Perhaps it had been this fear of being second best that had placed the first brick in the wall that had built up between them. She would have to trust that Patrick's heart was big enough for the both of them.

"Light always seems to catch the shadows, though, doesn't it, dearest? I tried that myself, I tried to pretend I wasn't feeling my love for you grow, that I wasn't leaving my path. It made everything such a struggle. I finally learned that I had to surrender to it. I think I'm _still_ learning how."

They lay together quietly, letting the power of their reunion heal the wounds of the last weeks. In the dim light their hands held and caressed, finding points of connection at every touch. Shelagh listened to the stillness, the steady beat of his heart under her ear, and knew they had found the right road, again.

Her mistake was in thinking that once having accepted love, her course was set. But love and marriage were not the same thing. Love was a gift from God, a blessing one had to be brave enough to accept. Marriage was understanding and compromise and trust. She was discovering that marriage was hard. It needed care and attention to thrive.

Love was a gift from God, one which required a brave heart to accept it fully. Finding that courage was only the beginning of the road. Marriage was about the joy and pain of working in union to stay on the path together.

She felt the breath fill his lungs as Patrick began, "I want to speak of it now, Shelagh."

* * *

So, finally, this is done. I started this fic a very long time ago, and even after picking it back up, I hit my own wall of discouragement. Special thanks to Rockbird86 for keeping me on track.

I found myself dipping into some of my old fics as I wrote this. I like to be consistent with my characterizations of Shelagh and Patrick, and a few fics in particular helped me work through their emotional journey, particularly in respect to Patrick's first marriage.


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